Well, I really don't call him Stitch too much anymore. He's still My Mason, though.
I was working at the preschool, still in the classroom then, with a couple of awesome ladies. I had one monstrous cycle in November-Decemberish, and was pretty sure I was having another round of bursting cysts (ever experienced that crap? Not fun). My friend Sherronda was driving one of our students home about a month later, and the little girl fell asleep. When her mother got her from Sherronda, she opened her sleepy little eyes and said, "Ms. Angie's having a baby."
Cue Twilight Zone theme.
We laughed it off, just like we laughed off my bloated belly ("I can't poop!"), my constant hunger and exhaustion, and my concurrent bad moods. Then came the night I was online trying to find stretchy-waisted pants to get me through that awkward non-poopy period, when every search brought up maternity pants. Again and again, maternity pants, no matter what key words I used.
Do do do do. . .
So, I peed on a stick and BAM, instant blue lines. Like, I wasn't even finished peeing and it was showing positive.
8 months later, we finally got our boy. Our beautiful, brilliant little boy, with the gorgeous dimples and big chocolatey eyes. This is Mason Austin, named for the line of bricklayers and Freemasons on my mother's side of the family, and for my little brother Austin.
Today, Mason is 6. He's still a baby to me, although he's in kindergarten, and his teachers all brag about his smart he is, how helpful and mannerly and sweet. I know better. He's a mama's boy and a rotten little brother who hides in his sisters' rooms and tattles daily. He cries and whines and screams. He laughs and sings and dances and loves Power Rangers, Spiderman, Doctor Who, and Supernatural. He's already reading chapter books and he can recall whole conversations that I wish we hadn't had. He's My Mason and I wouldn't change a thing about him.
I was working at the preschool, still in the classroom then, with a couple of awesome ladies. I had one monstrous cycle in November-Decemberish, and was pretty sure I was having another round of bursting cysts (ever experienced that crap? Not fun). My friend Sherronda was driving one of our students home about a month later, and the little girl fell asleep. When her mother got her from Sherronda, she opened her sleepy little eyes and said, "Ms. Angie's having a baby."
Cue Twilight Zone theme.
We laughed it off, just like we laughed off my bloated belly ("I can't poop!"), my constant hunger and exhaustion, and my concurrent bad moods. Then came the night I was online trying to find stretchy-waisted pants to get me through that awkward non-poopy period, when every search brought up maternity pants. Again and again, maternity pants, no matter what key words I used.
Do do do do. . .
So, I peed on a stick and BAM, instant blue lines. Like, I wasn't even finished peeing and it was showing positive.
 |
Today, Mason is 6. He's still a baby to me, although he's in kindergarten, and his teachers all brag about his smart he is, how helpful and mannerly and sweet. I know better. He's a mama's boy and a rotten little brother who hides in his sisters' rooms and tattles daily. He cries and whines and screams. He laughs and sings and dances and loves Power Rangers, Spiderman, Doctor Who, and Supernatural. He's already reading chapter books and he can recall whole conversations that I wish we hadn't had. He's My Mason and I wouldn't change a thing about him.
